


A Hunter Down Under

by AStandardName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Australian Humour - Freeform, Australian Slang, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 22:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14602908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStandardName/pseuds/AStandardName
Summary: Follows the short tale of a Hunter from a land down under.





	A Hunter Down Under

**A Hunter Down Under**

_1986 – South Australia_

A dull drone echo’s off the empty paddocks and open fields as an old white Holden Commodore cuts through the still countryside. The man at the wheel has been driving all day through the beating Australian sun in his car; despite having no working air conditioning. A smile graces his face as he slowly pushes the car to its limit. With the power of the V8 engine rattling through the old and worn car Gene leans over and fumbles through his glove box for a certain cassette tape.

Dropping the cassette into the ancient radio Gene Hughes cranks up the volume and feels his heart beat just a bit faster. The worn old tape, labelled ‘Daddy Cool’ clicks into its housing and slowly the familiar song Eagle Rock begins blaring throughout the car. Between the music and the power of his V8, Gene Hughes is having a good day; because today he’s on a hunt.

Slowly over the hazy horizon a town starts to appear; his destination, Wallaroo. As he shifts down gears he slows down and passes through the laid back port town. As he drives he watches normal people going about their business, mowing their lawns and relaxing after a long work week.

Waking early in his motel room this morning Gene saw the vague death notices of a pair of British bushwalkers who had been killed by wild animals. Gene gave a snort of laughter as he thought of the local cops chasing their tails trying to find the dingos brazen enough to go after and kill two adults. Gene pulled his Commodore up to worn looking police station and killed the engine. Shifting about in his seat for a minute Gene fumbled through the poorly organized box on the passenger seat until he found his identification card for the Australian Federal Police.

Gene quickly finished the last of his Carlton Draught beer sitting in his cup tray before sliding out of his car. Not a young man anymore Gene felt the stiffness of the few hours’ drive and took a moment to shake out the kinks in his legs. After righting himself Gene strode confidently into the police station.

“Afternoon, how can I help you?” asks the bored looking police officer on duty.

“Hi mate, lookin’ to talk to someone about them couple of bushwalker who died up this way the other day” says Gene confidently as he look about the empty police station.

“I’m sorry sir, nobody’s in right now except me. How can I help?” says the duty officer.

“Well, I guess that will have to do us. I’m Gene Bradman, with AFP out of Melbourne” says Gene flashing his fake identity card. “I was hoping to get a peek at your report”.

“And what’s your interest in this case?” says the duty officer looking surprised.

“Personal. Just doing a mate a favour” says Gene with an easy smile.

“Well. I suppose it can’t hurt can it” says the duty officer with a guileless smile. The duty officer walks off for a moment and rifles through an old steel cabinet before returning triumphantly with the file. “Here’s the file, but I can’t let you take copies”.

“Too easy” says Gene absently as he rifles through the file for the good parts. Two victims found together, wounds to their heads. An idea occurs to Gene as he reads about the two locals who found the bushwalkers.

“Hey mate, any chance the coroner has done an autopsy yet?” asks Gene looking up from the report.

“Yeah, we haven’t got it faxed through yet, but I heard the Sergeant talking about it on the phone” said the duty officer.

“And?” asks Gene giving the young policeman an irritated look.

“And...” says the young man leaning in, “...whatever killed those two poms, ate their brains too”. The final piece cinching the culprit locks into place as an understanding smile crosses Gene’s face.

“Dropbears” mutters Gene as he looks up the location where they found the victims in the file.

“What was that?” asks the duty officer looking up.

“Nothing. Cheers for the help mate” says Gene as he hands back the file and strides out the door towards his Commodore leaving the young officers pleasantries unheard. Pulling himself back behind the wheel Gene keys the ignition and takes off for the area of bushland the two victims were found sans brains.

Gene lets loose on the throttle and speeds the entire way to the bushland area, feeling instantly better about what he’s hunting.

Dropbears: small fuzzy looking things; cute and loveable and look like Koalas. Except they move like cheetahs and live for dropping down onto some poor saps head and biting their way through the victim’s skull and feasting on brain matter. Not a particularly hard job for a hunter considering what else is out there, but it’s still a job that needs doing.

After a quick stop at a local deli and thirty minutes drive later Gene pulls his old white Commodore onto the dirt road running through bushland area where the Dropbear’s attacked.  Pulling his car over in a clearing Gene consults his newly bought map and decides to walk it from here. Gene the car and opens the backdoor and throws back and old sheet of tarp covering some of his hunting arsenal.

Gene grabs his reliable hunting shotgun and a box of iron solid shotgun slugs. Closing the back door Gene walks off into the bush towards where the two victims were found. With a practiced movement Gene loads up his shotgun and pockets the box of slugs. Dropbears are fast buggers and like to catch you snoozing, but blasting their heads off will kill them cold.

Feeling the arthritis in his knees and his breath catching Gene slows up as he hikes his way towards where the bodies were found. _Hell of a place to go bushwalking_ he thinks to himself as he keeps his eyes out on the treetops for the silver fur of the vicious bastards he’s out here hunting. _At least it’s not a demon_ he thinks optimistically.

Five lung burning, knee aching minutes later Gene comes to the area where the two British bushwalkers bodies were found and sees the yellow crime scene tape. Stopping for a moment Gene sits down on the grassy ground, keeping mindful distance from overhead trees.

Taking in easy lungfuls of air Gene stops to appreciate the calm country air before returning to his task of trying to spot the vicious Dropbears hiding in the foliage of the trees. As he scans each tree for the little silver brain-eater while keeping his shotgun ready.

Minutes pass as Gene tries to spot his prey, knowing they will probably wait out until some food passes under their trees. As the idea of going back into Wallaroo to get some bait enters Gene’s mind a blood curdling scream echoes through the bushlands.

Gene’s head snaps in the direction of the scream and he launches to his feet moving as fast as his trick knee will allow. As he passes through some bushes and down the walking track Gene spots a police officer in his blue uniform, wrestling and grabbing futilely for a Dropbear.

Gene runs closer as he sees the Dropbear its long claws sunk into cop’s shoulders. The long fangs stand out as the Dropbear moves to bite through the cops skulls. Pulling up short Gene levels out his shotgun and with practiced movements lines the sights up with the Dropbear’s head and gives the trigger a soft squeeze.

The gunshot echo’s through the bushlands as Dropbear’s head splatters into a rosy mess over the policeman’s head and shoulders. The remains of the corpse falls limply off the cop’s back as he scrambles forward and away from his would be brain-eater.

Gene approaches the cop slowly as the man picks himself up from the ground.

“You alright mate?” asks Gene.

“Yeah. But... what the hell was that thing?” asks the cop barely keeping himself from hyperventilating.

“Feral koala, seen it before” lies Gene easily. “What were you doin’ out here?” asks Gene as though it were his business to asks law enforcement officers of what they were doing.

“I... uh. I was looking for a neck chain of one of those two poms who died the other day” says the cop.

“Right. Well. I best be off, missus will want me home” lies Gene as he kicks at the lifeless Dropbear.

“Uh, yeah. Um right” says the flustered cop as Gene heads back up the trail towards his car.

“Hey mate... what’s your name?” asks the cop.

“Gene, Gene Lawry” lies Gene once again as he moves through the bush and out of sight of the cop. Heading for his car Gene feels confident this will just get chalked up to another feral animal attack, and nobody will come poking.

Feeling slightly glad that the unfortunate cop drew out the Dropbear, saving him the effort of baiting the little bastard, Gene lets out a contented sigh that today was an easy day as a hunter. Without concern Gene throws his shotgun and box of slugs onto the back seat and throws the tarp over them once more before getting behind the wheel of his air conditioner-less Holden Commodore.

Five minutes of drive later and Gene is back onto the highway heading to anywhere but here. Gene reaches over and pulls out another can of Carlton Draught and cracks the top with a soft hiss and spray. Gene takes a sip of his now warm beer and relaxes back into the driver’s seat as he guns the throttle and lets his V8 sing. _Maybe my easy streak will continue_ thinks Gene as he takes another sip of his warm beer.

As he thinks that Gene hears the squawking of his old CB radio

“Gene. Gene come in mate” comes a voice over the radio. Cursing bitterly Gene drops the can of beer into the cup holder and grabs the handset.

“This is Gene. What do you want?” asks Gene into the handset knowing he won’t like the answer.

“Message from Terry mate. Say’s there’s a Bunyip job for you out at Broken Hill” comes the voice on the radio.

“Son of a bitch” groans Gene bitterly as thoughts of his nice relaxing weekend melt away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was the dumbest thing I ever wrote.


End file.
